Noviate
by Natalilly
Summary: [PART THREE UP] [ON HOLD]! A series of short stories outlining events spoken about in 'The Elenium' but never explored about the time they were novices. Mostly martle based but Plenty of Sparhawk and Kaltan too.
1. Noviate

_NOVIATE_

**DISCLAIMER:**

The characters and places,

All names and faces,

Do not belong to me.

To own them, I'd say,

I'd need to pay,

A rather exuberant fee.

To give them their due,

(Though no news to you-)

They belong to Eddings- David and Leigh.

So that's the copyright done,

Now onto the fun

Of the story you're about to see…

How can you tell?

How do you know so well?

That disclaimers are boring to me? 

**NOTE: **Don't be concerned, it's only the disclaimer I wrote in rhyme, nothing else.

**IMPORTANT: **If you've been following this series, I'd like to make a BIG announcement! I've changed and edited a lot of the stories, and reposted. No longer is the focus on Sparhawk and Kaltan. It's on Martel, cause everyone write about Sparhawk and Kaltan and no one writes about Martel and He happens to be my favourite Eddings character. So the focus has changed dramatically.

IF you want another short story thing about Sparhawk and Kaltan, write a comment or something and I might do one, but for now, It's given to Martel.

They were all trying to be brave- all trying to look like prospective knights rather then pale, frightened thirteen year olds. They fooled nobody.

Vanion stood near the front of the small room, represplendid in his burnished black armour, and his coppery hair, the silver that touched his temples making him look dignified, rather then old. He spoke quietly to the handful of proud, anxious parents with reassuring words and polite smiles, nodding his head and outlining the basics of training to the weepy eyed mothers, while the six novices-to-be milled around the room, all wishing for talk, all unwilling to be the first to strike up conversation, unsure whether their crackling adolescent voices would fail them in this moment where such humiliation would be a knife wound to their delicate egos.

Sparhawk and Kaltan stood nervously to one side of the room, trying to look inconspicuous. A brief glance at Kaltan told Sparhawk his friend was looking about the room with wide, frightened blue eyes. Sparhawk's stomach withered in pity, for Kaltan looked like he was about to faint, or cry, or a unique combination of the both.

The previous night he and Kaltan had dreamed up wonderful and noble visions of how today would be. Sparhawk's father, already being a knight of many years had given them, when he had the time, little snippets of what was to come. They had envisioned themselves standing bravely, joking, chatting while the score of other boys cowered and stood in awe of Kaltan and Sparhawk's lack of care or fear.

But, like most dreams of the future, it wasn't anywhere near the reality. They were both as pale and nervous as the others in the room, and visions of carelessness and banter faded like autumn's blaze into winter.

Sparhawk studied his four future companions, trying to take his mind of the nervous situation. He was the son of Sparhawk; he would not fold under the dense pressure that permeated the air. He decided, firmly, that he would strike up conversation with one of the four boys, seeing Kaltan was in no condition move, let alone talk.

There was one green-eyed lad with hair in dark blonde curls, absently pacing he room, gnawing at a nail. He was out of the question. He looked as if, upon the first word, he would collapse in terrified whimpering.

A black haired fellow with sad brown eyes sitting in a rough chair and staring at his feet was also ruled out. His gaze was unfocused, and any word would bounce staring off to echo humiliatingly about the room.

Another deep brown haired boy was leaning quietly against a wall, eavesdropping on what his parents told the preceptor, Sparhawk could sympathise with this curiosity and left this fellow alone too.

Last chance was pale lad with intense black eyes and a great mane of thick auburn hair. He was staring about the room with a cool glance, and only a slight fidgeting of his hands gave a hint of any nervousness. His dark eyed gaze met Sparhawk's, and he gave a half smile. Sparhawk decided he seemed a good enough person to break the silence with, for he did not look away, and seemed to be faring quite well. Sparhawk needed desperately to talk. The silence was beginning to close in.

"Hullo." He greeted, a little tensely, hoping the lad would not reject his efforts off hand.

"Hello." The lad replied, folding his arms to keep his hands still. He had a rather resonant voice, Sparhawk noted.

"Um.." Already stuck for words? Sparhawk blurted the first thing that came into his head. "You coming into your training too?" What a stupid question, of course he was, or he wouldn't be here. Fortunately the lad didn't take it as a fool's question, or if he did, he hid it well.

"Yeah, I suppose I am." He started, then, hearing the echoing silence from the other children, elaborated "I'm the youngest of my family, so I shan't inherit. I suppose I prefer the idea of being a knight to being old, rich and useless anyway." He smiled wryly "I was given the option of becoming a scholar- and I've even studied a bit on it, but I much prefer the open air to stuffy old class rooms." Sparhawk grinned; noting the other four had lifted their faces, and were listening with interest.

"Yeah, I suppose I understand. I've done a bit of study myself, but I had to be a knight, it's in my family- It's a tradition. I studied the things that would help me follow in my father's steps." He liked talking about his father, he was awfully proud of him. The boy looked curious.

"In your family? Sounds exiting- a family of knights. Better then a family of snobbish nobles." He said, throwing a slightly irritated glance at a haughty redheaded man and his dark eyed, pale haired wife. Sparhawk assumed they were his parents. The resemblance was there.

"It is, I get to go into the palace sometimes, and I've seen my father training. He's the king's champion!" Sparhawk announced proudly, getting a smile from his father, and gratified by the murmurs from the other boys, and the look of slight surprise of the red headed boy's face.

"You mean Sir Sparhawk?" The boy said incredulously. Sparhawk nodded, face beaming. "Wow. So, you're Sparhawk's son?" He nodded again. "What's your name? Is it Sparhawk, too? I remember that all your family is called Sparhawk." The boy seemed less calculating now, and warmer. Sparhawk was pleased- he had obviously said the right thing.

"No, it's just Sparhawk, not Sparhawk two. That would be silly." He replied, half in jest. The boy laughed, dark eyes still watching carefully.

"No, I meant too, as in, 'as well' not as in 'number two'" he extended his hand "I'm Martel, by the way."

Sparhawk took the hand, and the boys shook in a gesture sealing a new friendship.

Sparhawk was suddenly aware of Kaltan's presence looming behind him. Curiosity had taken over from nerves and he'd come over to join his old friend and the red head, pensively, just in case this Martel would resent someone else joining the conversation. Sparhawk waved him closer and patted him on the back with a heavy thud of camaraderie.

"This is my friend Kaltan. He grew up with me because his parents died, and we've been friends for ages. Kaltan, this is a new friend- his name's Martel." He introduced, happy that Kaltan had finally snapped out of his anxious staring.

The two boys exchanged murmured greetings, sizing each other up with the nervousness one gets when one is meeting someone new.

After the two had shook hands, Sparhawk turned to the rest of the boys in the room, waving them over.

The blonde boy turned out to be Kirrid, oldest, yet illegimate son of his family, sent into knighthood because his father and stepmother loved him too much and didn't want to see him disinherited and turned out because of legalities in nobility. He wanted, and was granted, a chance in the Pandions instead.

Jarris, the black haired boy, had the opposite problem. He was oldest, legimate, yet his mother had died, and his father remarried. His father and his stepmother had bore a child, and wished rid of Jarris to make room for their precious son to inherit in his place. Jarris was personally pleased to be out of there.

Olvan, the brunette boy, was fairly silent, giving out only slight details of wanting to be a knight and having his parent's support.

Soon the silence that had lain so heavy upon the boys had lifted, to be replaced with friendly laughter and chattering, time whiling away like time about old friends.

Naturally, when they'd finally calmed their nerves and were eagre for the once uncomfortable silent waiting to remain, Vanion clapped his hands together for attention. The nerves returned as if they had never left, each boy blanching visibly, and silence dropping like a stone.

While they were talking, their parents had left the room, left the building even, unnoticed by the boys, and a small, dark haired woman had taken their place, watching them with warm, blue eyes.

When the children had found themselves a seat about the place, Vanion began his normal introductory speech. It was firm and unembellished. The boys were here to learn harsh lessons, not be pampered.

"Alright novices- I am Lord Vanion, the preceptor of the Pandion knights. I will be your lord, instructor, teacher- and sometimes, disciplinarian." He stared at them stonily, pausing for effect. Sparhawk bit his lip. "I will not tolerate any foolishness from _any_ of you. From now on, expect to be treated like men, not boys. You shall forget your titles, forget your airs. You are here to learn." He emphasised this by thumping his fist into his palm. The gauntlets made an unpleasant sound against each other. "Many people will tutor you, Knights and Squires shall teach you on the field. Respect them as you would respect me, for my authority over you extends to them. They have the right to punish you if you do wrong, just as I do. You will be assigned chores. Do these without shortcuts and without complaint. Obey your superiors, for anyone here can give you an order." He turned to the small woman, softness in his eyes. "This is Sephrenia, she shall be your tutor in the arts of Styricum, for fighting is only a part of your job." He turned back, eyes hard again. "Your day starts at sunrise where you will dress and make yourselves presentable, and make your way to the refectory for breakfast. You shall then attend chapel, and from there a knight shall take you to the practice field. He, or I, will put your through your paces before lunch bell. After you have dined, then you will meet Sephrenia for your lessons. When she releases you, you will attend you whatever is on your timetable." He gazed over the apprehensive faces. "Your timetable will be up kept by you. Anything you're flagging in you must practice. Keep in mind that during this time, any knight can call upon your for a chore. You must not complain about this. You must attend to it immediately. Unless you're doing something either I, or Sephrenia have ordered of you. You will then POLITELY inform the knight in question." He paused, looing imperiously over them "Have I made myself clear?" He asked. All the boys sat up straighter and intoned 'Yes sir!' together with timid voices.  
"Good. You will now be assigned to your room in common, and you shall unpack. When the dinner bell is rung, make your way to the refectory for evening meal, and then to chapel." He smiled slightly "We shall let you have this one last day of freedom, for tomorrow, your training begins. Remember the training for knighthood is hard, and some of you may leave before your training is out. However, the benefits are great." With that he left with the small woman in tow, and a young knight came in, ushering the now hesitant boys out and leading them in silence to a room made up for them, their luggage dumped in a pile in the centre. The knight left without a comment, and the six boys looked about their new home.

It wasn't a very generous room. Two bunks stood against the far wall, each with three beds. They were Spartan, with only corse blankets and very crisp looking sheets, and a rickety ladder to get up. There was a large wardrobe beside the door with three doors, a small chest of draws and a desk with a hard looking seat.

"Cosy" Martel drawled, breaking the oppressive silence that had again descended, and sitting down on one of the bunks, making a slight face. "This is going to take some getting used to I think. Too many soft beds have ruined me." He said with mock resignation, before laughing quietly and going to the pile of belongings. The other boys soon joined him  
"I'm glad I didn't pack anything breakable." Kaltan said, digging through the pile and unearthing his trunk.

"If you did, it isn't very breakable anymore." Sparhawk grinned, taking out his own trunk, and a bag from the tangled mess. He dragged it to the vacant wall, where Kaltan had left his.

"I dibs the bottom bunk!" Kaltan yelled after depositing his bag ontop of his trunk, then throwing himself on the bunk Martel had vacated. He lay there and after a few seconds silence… "Martel's right, this will take some getting used to." Came Kaltan's muffled voice from the bedspread where he was face down. He looked up, grinning.  
"Aw, I was about to dibs the bottom." Said the dark haired Kirrid. Kaltan poked out his tongue impudently.  
"You'll just have to take the other bunk then, won't you?" Kaltan said, lying back and folding his arms. "this one's mine and you ain't gonna move me!"

There was a furious struggle for a few minutes between Kirrid and Olvan over the bottom bunk. Olvan was about to put his own claims on the bed when Kirrid had dived in front. A small scuffled erupted immediately, but finally, Kirrid won, he laughed and lay down, spread out to cover as much bed as he could. Olvan took the bunk above the smug raven-haired boy.

"Fine. Take it. I will be sure to put beetles in your pyjama's if I fall out." Olvan said, but in fun, with no particular anger or jealousy.

Sparhawk put his stuff on the bunk above Kaltan, looking at the two boys left. Martel and Jarris were still struggling with the bags. Sparhawk approached the red head he had first spoken to.  
"Not worried about heights?" he asked Martel, who was attempting to untangle the strap of his bag from the strap of Jarris', trying to sound casual

"Not particularly. Why?" he asked, finally tugging it free with such a force he stumbled backwards and fell firmly on his backside.  
"Why not join out bunk? The top one is free." Martel shrugged; only the slight tugging at the corner of his mouth indicated how pleased he was at being chosen. He accepted Sparhawk's hand up

"Yeah, I suppose I will." He replied, also trying to sound casual, throwing his bag up. He then opened his trunk "I expect we should get unpacked. They seem awfully stiff necked about this place, and I wouldn't want to irritate them. The preceptor looks as if he could give a sound thrashing…"

The other boys immediately joined his unpacking.

When they had finished, they all sat on their trunks, talking about their homes, pasts, families and everything. Sparhawk forgot about his duties, his expectations, the chores, the tales his father had told about his own noviate. For the moment, he'd found new friends- a new family, it was fun and happy and he was awfully content. The harshness of training was tomorrow, which seemed and eternity away.

Even though they had been talking for two hours, when the dinner bell rang, it seemed an awful short time. The boys regretfully got up and filed out the door.

"Uh, I just had a thought…" Jarris volunteered, looking down the T intersection that spread in front of them, giving them three options of travel. "Which way is the refectory?"

No one answered. There was no one about to follow.

"I guess we wander one direction until we find someone to either ask, or follow." Martel shrugged. Sparhawk nodded.  
"We came from that way when we were lead here." He said, pointing to the left. " So I suppose we go either straight on or to the right…" He didn't wait for an answer, he just went straight on.

They presently came upon an older novice, and asked the way. The boy smiled with remembered pity, and led them down the right and into a large, open door where the entire company housed at Demos sat and milled, eating and laughing.

They were directed to a table far away from the fire where the other novices sat, all varying ages and levels.

They millede around, unsure where to sit, frightened of taking the wrong place and being yelled at. However, one accommodating novice waved them in  
"Sit anywhere you want, younglings." Said the meaty handed novice with a broad grin. "Your first day here, no doubt."  
They nodded mutely, timidly taking seats wherever there were spaces.  
"I'm Lakus. Been here a few years myself- probably still be sitting here still when I'm in my fifties, hoping for my spurs." He laughed, putting the boys at ease, before skilfully regaling them with tale from his own noviate, with help from the others on the table, all of who knew how uncomfortable it was for the six youngsters.  
The time seemed to fly under the laughter and the claming cheering words of the other novices. But time did, in fact, end, no matter how short it seemed, and the boys filed in, herded by the friendly Lakus and the rest of the novices, to chapel.

This was a bit more comfortable; all of them had been brought up in pious households, and long boring sermons were normal.  
Sparhawk, did, however, manage to doze off. He was firmly brought back to reality by an elbow in the ribs from both sides. He opened his eyes sharply, and found himself being glared at by eyes both black and blue.

"Don't fall asleep, you great horse-faced git!" Kaltan hissed, trying to keep quiet. Sparhawk stared at him stubbornly.

"I wasn't sleeping!" He lied. Martel, on his other side, snorted in disbelief

"Why were you snoring then?" Martel whispered harshly, voice heavy with sarcasm. Sparhawk blushed, and cursed himself for blushing.  
"I wasn't, I was… murmuring a prayer…" Martel began to giggle, and Kaltan rolled his eyes, broad grin across his face.  
"Whom were you praying to, the troll gods?"

They were all tired, but couldn't sleep. This was the start of something big and new, and they were all exited and eagre.  
"What'll you think we'll do tomorrow?" Jarris asked in the small hours, while they all felt sandy eyed and heavy, too tired to move, but too awake to sleep.  
"I'm looking forward to jousting!" Olvan said from the middle of the other bunk.

"I dunno, I'm kinda looking forward to the secrets of Styricum… But it all sounds fun to me." Martel's resonant voice came sleepily from above.

"Anyone looking forward to the chores?" Kaltan's voice came from below, with a grin in it's colour, there was an amused muttering from everyone.  
"I suppose we all better sleep… or get a taste of that nice sounding punishment the preceptor warned us about…" Kirrid added, reluctantly, there was a murmur of equally reluctant agreement.

Sparhawk sighed and buried himself into his covers; this had been a good day. His first day as a novice.  
It was with thoughts of glory as a knight, and dreams of fun with the other novices, pranks and practical jokes that Sparhawk finally drifted to sleep.


	2. Adept

**Adept**

Alright, as I said in the last one, this is a reload and slightly adapted. IF you'd like me to do another one of these with the focus on Sparhawk and Kaltan, just give me a comment suggesting the like and I'll start working on it…. But truth be told I am a shameless Martel addict. And it's not like he gets much attention anyway. pats him then snatches hand away as he tries to bite

This one didn't need much adapting at all, just a few corrections and tweaks here and there.

Sephrenia looked at the array of new little boys she was about to train. New lessons were always painful ordeals. Only later when the sessions became one on one did it become more pleasing. Unfortunately as a group, little boys had short attention spans and loud mouths.

"Calm, calm!" She ordered them wearily, waiting for the talking and the messing about to stop. It never did, and she was old and experienced enough to wait for the natural lull in conversation rather then expect them to eventually grow quiet

However, after a few impatient minutes waiting, her deep blue eyes scanning faces, waiting patiently for that little dip in sound, she began to grow impatient. She pursed her lips irritably. It was one of THOSE groups. A mischievous grin tugged the corner of her mouth.

With a mischievous grin she quietly cast a spell her fingers long practiced with this one…

The novices suddenly all fell silent. She's muted them.  
"Now that you're all silent, we can begin.' She said with a half smile, watching the boys fidget, holding their throats, mouths moving silently.

"What's happened to you, you ask?" She grinned at their intense worried gazes. A few nodded. "A simple spell" She explained with mock depreciation, clasping her hands demurely in front of her, watching them with sharp, blue eyes. "I can reverse it… but I want you to listen. I can put it back on just as quickly, so don't even think of chatting as soon as it's lifted"

The boys looked at each other then six sets of wide eyes met hers

"You want it gone?" She pressed. The all nodded feverantly. She smiled and muttered the counter spell

"HOW did you do that?" A dark eyed red head blurted, before cowing back as his five classmates glared at him silently.

She laughed musically "Questions ARE allowed, although I'd prefer you raised your hands." She said to the now thoroughly abashed boy. He nodded meekly.

"That was a simple spell, as I mentioned. I'll go deeper into what a spell is after I've collected your names. But first, I shall teach you the proper greeting. Young Sparhawk…" She pointed to the youth she'd instantly pinned as the next Sparhawk. It was like a repetition of history, many, many times over. She'd trained four Sparhawks in her time. "Here." She directed him to just in front of her.

"Now, a Styric greeting is very simple. Sparhawk, take my hands…" He took her little white hands in his a little nervously. "Turn them palm upward and kiss the palms…"

As usual, there was sniggering. Sparhawk went an endearing shade of red and awkwardly kissed her palms. She smiled, and touched his face, finishing the blessing. He beamed at her, looking a little startled.

"Sparhawk, you can go back to you seats. Thankyou for being brave…"  
A large blonde boy elbowed young Sparhawk, murmuring, no doubt, teasing comments to him.

"You all have to do it, so I wouldn't laugh." She pointed a tiny finger at them. The laughing stopped abruptly. "I want you to each come up, greet me in the proper manner and tell me your names." It seemed authoritarian, but her blessings usually always made the mood lighter. She sat neatly on her chair and waited, wondering who would be the first to come up.

She wasn't surprised when the little red haired boy stood up and came out. He knelt in front of her and opened her palms kissing them.

"Martel, ma'am." He greeted. She blessed him. Something had screamed a very quiet warning in her head when his lips met her palm. A premonition, dark- a city on fire, a mousy man, many miles, a flash of blue and a familiar, hideous face, white hair, a glowing apparition… She pushed the images away for now and smiled a façade.

Next were Olvan, a large, heavyset boy, yet so quiet she had him repeat his name, then Jarris then Kaltan, then Kirrid. She gave them vague blessings, mid still following the revelation the first boy had brought on.

However, her thoughts were silenced as she saw him speaking quietly to Sparhawk… Anakha… of course.

"Now- My name is Sephrenia, but the knights here call me "Little mother" I quite like that name, so do feel free to use it." She smiled at them winsomely "Now. What is magic, does anyone know?" Sparhawk put his hand up timidly; she smiled and nodded at him. He stood up.

"Um- magic is… is the power of the Styric gods they let us borrow to do things." He explained, making her wince. Coarse, but at least he sort of knew. She nodded and he sat back down with relief.

"The power of the Gods and Goddess' of Styicum. You ask them, which is the words and the gesture and they respond. Only in very, very rare cases will they refuse.  
The problem is, young men, you have to learn Styric. It's a difficult language with many complexities. However, today, to give you a little feel of the magic, a small taste" There was a murmur of excitement. Her students of the past had taught her that classes worked much better if the novices had tried and failed before she went on to formal instruction. "I shall teach you a very simple spell. I want you to create a daisy on the table in front of you."

The groan. She laughed. Mighty novices thinking themselves above creating a daisy. This was the painful time for her, but at the same time, sort of smug. Not one would be able to do it. They never could- it was a good lesson in humility. She pushed on bravely

"The word is '_thaleck' _relatively simple- you don't need to specify white, which is '_Remudi Olagess' _or size or anything. We're starting off with a daisy because of the simplicity of the word and the creation. Rose, for example is "_Limanisdrakeden_" much more complicated. Now, repeat word after me…. '_thaleck_' "

This continued for a few painful minutes until they all managed to pronounce it correctly enough.

"Now, gestures- please follow after me. I'll do them slowly at first." She moved her hands in the pattern, going through a few times until she was satisfied. It wasn't all that hard, but Kaltan seemed determined to mess up. She sighed.

"Now, all of you try the spell. THINK the word in relation to the picture in your mind of a daisy. Try not to let Elenic get in the way. I'll be with Kaltan if you have problems"

She turned her back as they started a chorus of voices, mostly mispronounced. However, as soon as she opened her mouth to help the lost looking novice, she felt the prickle of magic. She swung back, looking along the line of boys, shocked; she drew a breath and lay a careful hand on Kaltan's desk, murmuring an empty reassurance before casually walking in front of the desks, feigning a tutorial interest.  
At last she found herself in front of young Martel, who was critically examining his daisy.  
'Have you had lessons before this?" She asked him casually, leaning down

'No… I just did what you said and…" He shrugged, holding it out to her. She took it. Amazed

"Oh- well... well done" she congratualated tightly. She suddenly became aware of everyone was watching her with slightly apprehensive eyes. "Keeps going boys…" She finished lamely. It was impossible, no one had ever done that... not in her time… No, she corrected, one of the Sparhawks, living up to their ultimate grandfather's ability.  
She sat back down, twirling the daisy thoughtfully. The tingle of magic tugged her senses again, as he created another, black eyes strangely intent.

Impossible! She looked blankly at the flower. This meant much… a novice picking magic up this quick. He was going to either be very, very good, or very, very dangerous…

A light tap on her shoulder brought her back. Martel stared at her with very black eyes. He held out a white rose to her.  
"For you little mother." He said, something kindled in his eyes- something intense. She took the flower.  
"You remembered those words?"

"My parents had me schooled. I have a retentive memory for- lessons I like." He said, his voice strangely steely. "Magic fascinates me."

She beamed at him, pushing all those preliminary hunches out of her mind. Anakha… he had a commanding presence. The flashes of the future of the people around him were clouding her thoughts.  
She took the white rose and breathed in the scent.

The visions had carried the taint of villainy, but looking at him, she could see no evil in Martel.

But then again, she had been known to be wrong.


	3. Breakings

BREAKINGS

I hated this one initially, so to keep with the Martel theme, I changed it, and now it's much better, don't you think?

**__**

There was a satisfying clang as the lance hit the very centre of the target, bending the arm back. Vanion nodded, beaming.

"Sixth hit in a row, Sparhawk, you're doing well." The preceptor complimented, leaning against the rails of the practice yard, gauntlets in his hands as he watched the latest bunch of striplings charge at a target

Set up in an ingenious manner, the targets were wooden arms with shields attached, connected to a pole. Every hit bent the arm back, and a cleverly wrought windlass slowly eased it back into position for the next pass

Sparhawk raised his practice visor and nodded to the preceptor, his sweaty face beaming. Compliments were hard wrung from Vanion

However, his proud moment of compliment was broken by another clatter of a bullseye. Sparhawk looked over his shoulder with the slight resentment- his fleeting moment of glory marred, as Vanion clapped another good pass.

Martel raised his visor and shot his noviate brother a grin "Don't think you'll get ahead of me Sparhawk!" He warned in a friendly fashion, spurring his horse level and clapping his brother on the shoulder, Sparhawk forced a laugh

"How many?" He asked, feeling his competitive spirit taking over and had a hard time talking without grating his teeth. Martel was the only match he had on the field.

His red headed compeitor opened his mouth to comment proudly, but Vanion butted in over the top  
"Eight now- I've been counting… If that new Warhorse of yours hadn't faltered, Sparhawk, you'd be even."  
Sparhawk absently patted his new steed, Faran, a little indignantly.

"Not my fault sir, the horse is a bit frolicsome… good steed, anyway." He said a little surly. "I could floor Martel anytime on passes if it weren't for that…" He boasted, trying to fix his ego. Vanion laughed

"Martel- why don't you let your surly component have two passes to try to even the score?" The preceptor said with a hint of a grin through his auburn beard. Martel bowed mockingly and allowed the now embarrassed Sparhawk to pass.

Humiliation and anger mingled in the novice Pandion. He TRIED to think of it lightly as the other two seemed to be taking it, but a burning "I'll show them" sort of attitude over rode everything…

So it was rather natural that he hit the sheild a little too hard on both passes… the second time, a crack was faintly heard from the leaver arm of the target. He ignored it and rode back to the preceptor and his novice brother

"Excellent!" Vanion clapped, slapping his free hand to his wrist, Martel didn't look quite as smug as before. Sparhawk raised his visor grinning at his brother novice. That cheered him more then a thousand correct passes ever would. He stubbornly told himself off for such a thought, but the triumph ran repeatedly over his karma, he beamed at Martel and gestured the field  
"All yours…" He said expansively. Martel grunted noncommittally and clucked his horse to the field. Vanion shook his head  
"Noviates!" He rolled his eyes heavenward. Sparhawk cocked an eyebrow at him, but the preceptor just shook his head "Watch"

Later, Sparhawk would blame himself for what happened. He should have mentioned it, but it had just seemed so unimportant….

Martel made the pass, but instead of the wooden arm bending and swinging slowly back, it snapped in two. The horse panicked and reared, the startled novice grabbed onto the reins tightly, but the broken arm that held the target swung back forcefully, windlass broken, slamming hard across Martel's chest and hurling him from the saddle.  
Sparhawk and Vanion were by the fallen novice's side before they could even think about it.  
Martel pushed his visor up- his fifteen year old face look terribly white, but he determinedly tried to sit up. Vanion pushed him down with the flat of his hand  
"Stay there" he warned "You might have damaged something and the last thing I need is a knight with such promise coming out crippled."  
Martel oped his mouth to protest, but shut it, obviously thinking better of it.

Wise decision.

Later, in the chirgeon's area of the compound, Martel was complaining to his friends about his now bedridden exile

"It's not like I can't move or anything, I swear Vanion's a fanatic. It's only a little broken…"

"Martel, the chirgeon says you shattered the bone…." Sparhawk chided, a little amused at his friend's over enthusiasm to be back on the field

"So? It doesn't affect my other arm and…"  
"And you'll be staying there as long as the chirgeon says, Young novice…." Vanion said from the door, looking amused. "As for you two, you're supposed to leave him alone, now out…" He thumbed towards the door. The last thing they heard of their friend was a definite protest about not needing rest and what was he going to do now, stare at the ceiling?

It was some weeks before he was allowed back on the practice field, although he HAD spent the time practicing other weaponry, he had also spent the time complaining about it…

THWACK!

"Another hit, Glad you haven't lost your form there, young Novice!" Vanion complimented.  
Martel reined in his bulky horse and raised his visor. Sparhawk was aware of his fellow novice watching HIS pass. Thankfully it hit square on.  
As he pulled Faran over, Martel smirked

"Care for another contest, Brother Mine?" He asked in mock innocence.

Sparhawk hesitated, glancing at his preceptor. Vanion gave him a faint smile and the tiniest nod.  
"You're on! Prepare to lose!" He grinned, nudging Faran over to a free practice arm, his friend following


End file.
